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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22688866">Still Remains</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dumbothepatronus/pseuds/Dumbothepatronus'>Dumbothepatronus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hogwarts, POV George Weasley, POV Third Person Limited, Past Tense, Portraits, Post-Canon, Short One Shot, The Sound of Silence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 09:59:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,367</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22688866</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dumbothepatronus/pseuds/Dumbothepatronus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>For twenty years, George has avoided the cold stone halls he once roamed with his brother. But no more. It's time to face his memories and his grief, and find who they left behind the picture frames so many years ago.</p><p>One-Shot.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Still Remains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the fiery halo of a flickering street lamp, George Weasley splashed through his own shadow. He stomped through the puddles on Hogsmeade’s lonely cobblestone streets as if he could outrun his own trepidation.</p><p>It had been years since he’d returned, to the haunted halls that could only still echo with his brother’s dying laugh. To the place they’d ruled together, kings of the castle.</p><p>The last time he’d walked past the walls of silent portraits, or snuck through the secret passageways, there had been no white in his hair. No wrinkles pulling down the corners of his mouth.</p><p>He’d avoided it for so long. But no more. Now he had to—</p><p>The castle drawbridge loomed before him, stuttering his footsteps along with his thoughts. It glared him down like a neon sign, alluring and accusatory. Where have you been? </p><p>George gulped. He could live two hundred years, grow a snow-white beard that reached his toes, and he still wouldn’t be ready. Not to face this.</p><p>He’d half-hoped Headmistress McGonagall would turn him down his request. But of course, the castle would always remember his sacrifice. He, regrettably, was always welcome here. </p><p>With a shake of his head, he pushed through the last mists on the grounds and pulled open the towering wooden door. </p><p>As soon as he stepped into the entryway, the smell of the musty canvases, of muddy footprints and stale sweat, sent him reeling back to thirty years ago—to Fred elbowing his ribs as they smuggled in gunpowder from the joke shop in Hogsmeade. Shoving the Marauder’s Map back into the pocket of his robes. Creaking open the front door and sneaking out into the starlight. </p><p>A wave of nostalgia washed through his fear, putting a smile on his face. If he squinted, he could see it, replaying like a memory in a pensive. But that wasn’t why he had come.</p><p>He pushed through the memories, through their silent echoes to the painting of the fruit near the kitchens. After so many years abandoned, George had no idea where to find him, but it was a start. The kitchens held nearly as many memories as they did food.</p><p>Grapes, pears, apples, oranges—the painting held barrels, bowls-full of images, but no sketchy mop of orange hair. George swallowed. What if he couldn’t find him? What if he’d vanished on—that night. “Get it together, Georgie. Where’s that Gryffindor courage?” He slapped his own face and turned down the hall. </p><p>So many portraits, so little time. Better start with the helpful ones. George turned away from the fruit. Time to pick up the pace. There was no sense dragging this out.</p><p>He jogged up endless flights of stairs until he reached the seventh floor, and with it the portrait of Sir Cadogan. Reckless, foolhardy, but always ready for an adventure. If he knew something, he’d at least be willing to share. That is, if he could remember. Years of experience slumming it with the paintings had taught him that they had short memories for things that didn’t involve themselves. </p><p>“Sir Cadogan?”</p><p>The knight lifted the faceguard on his helmet and squinted out into the hall. “Aha! At last an adventurer! What quest have ye?”</p><p>“Have you seen a boy? Around 14 years old, red hair, badly drawn?”</p><p>“A scurvy rascal? Fingers like jousting sticks?”</p><p>George’s heart pounded. He remembered! “That’s the one.”</p><p>“Aye, and I chased him off years ago! Nobody messes with a knight’s horse, I tell you. Told him I’d run him with my lance if—”</p><p>George’s fingers threaded in his hair. He didn’t bother to hang around for Sir Cadogan’s rant. Maybe the Fat Lady had heard something; she’d always had an ear for gossip. Besides, as a Gryffindor guardian, she had a decent memory for its students. </p><p>When he arrived before her, she tousled her hair over her shoulder. “You mean Fred? He used to come around here all the time after he-who-must-not-be-named was vanquished. Scrawny thing if you ask me.” She leaned forward, her eyes darting from side to side as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I heard, and don’t say anything, it was told to me in confidence—he was seen with Lucille in the mermaid’s lagoon last summer.” </p><p>“Have you heard anything lately?”</p><p>She shrugged and swirled her wine glass. Uh-oh. It may have been decades ago, but the look on her face when she was about to break into song was unforgettable. George slapped his hands over his ears.</p><p>“OOOOhhhaaaaahh!” The fat lady’s face turned a patchy purple as she sustained her operatic note. </p><p>“Wait! Where do I find Lucille?”</p><p>She did not stop singing, but through her grating vibrato George made out, “The StAAAAAAtue of BOOOOOOris!”</p><p>Ah yes, Boris the Bewildered. George took off at a run, his fears melting into anticipation. But Fred wasn’t there. He wasn’t at the astronomy tower, or in the dungeons, or near the Headmistress’ office, either.</p><p>Panic pounded through George’s ribs. It wasn’t really Fred, but the idea of him had kept George going all these years. The stupid little portrait they’d slapped right into a landscape one night on a whim. Though Fred had been the model, it could have been either of them, but was actually neither. Still, it looked like them, talked like them—and, most importantly—eavesdropped for them. </p><p>For years he’d imagined Fred living his best life, prodding young Gryffindors onto reckless dares. He’d imagined Fred playing practical jokes on stingy pureblood portraits and taking spaghetti baths in still-lifes.</p><p>Now he had hit a dead-end, and he had no idea where to go. His feet scraped against the stone floor as he meandered through the halls until a memory froze him.</p><p>He sunk to his knees and ran his fingers over the ground. “It was a really good bit of magic,” Professor Flitwick had said. It had been Fred’s idea. Or had it been George’s? It was so hard to tell where his brain began and Fred’s stopped. </p><p>But kneeling here, in the place where they had deployed their famous portable swamp before their grand exit from under Umbridge’s thumb, he was almost there. He could almost reach out and touch Fred next to him. He could almost hear their voices, scheming up their next big adventure. </p><p>He wasn’t sure how long he hunched there before he started to cry. His tears hit the cobblestone and formed the tiniest puddles, mirrors of the rain on the path through Hogsmeade. </p><p>“Georgie? Whatcha crying for?”</p><p>George froze. He lifted his eyes up, slowly, slowly, to rest on a painting of a pastoral landscape on the wall in front of him. “Fred?”</p><p>He looked even worse than he remembered. Sir Cadogan had been right about the jousting stick fingers. It was probably why they had become entrepreneurs instead of artists. </p><p>“Whoa, are you ever old. What is that, grey hair? Do they not have coloring charms anymore?”</p><p>George stumbled to his feet. “You’re alive!” If you could call it that. “I was so worried…” Worried that he’d be rocking in a corner of the dungeon, with no memory of his creator. Worried that he’d be an angry mess, lonely and forlorn. George smiled. Fred must have been better at the animation charm he’d used to bring the drawing to life then George had been at sketching his brother.</p><p>Fred shrugged. “Immortal and all. It’s a bit boring in the summers, with no students to mess with, but otherwise it’s not so bad. How come you never come see me?”</p><p>“Oh, you know, life and stuff.” Did Fred know he was dead? George wasn’t sure. He looked so boyish, so innocent, that he couldn’t bear to tell him.  “Listen, I have a favor to ask you.” </p><p>Fred’s face lit up. “Anytime, mate. It’ll be just like the old days!”</p><p>“My son. He’s going to be a first-year this September.”</p><p>Fred rubbed his stick fingers together. “Ah, so you want me to keep an eye out for him? Make sure he gets into plenty of trouble?”</p><p>George grinned. “If you could.”</p><p>“Anything for you, my brother. Or are you my father? It was never really clear.”</p><p>“Brother. Brother is perfect.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>AN: Thank you to Ethan and Bex for their wonderful beta help with this short.<br/>Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter</p></blockquote></div></div>
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